


The Space Between Us

by Heirofpsyche



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, I'm Sorry, M/M, Monty is dead in this, Peter came home, Sleepy Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heirofpsyche/pseuds/Heirofpsyche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marwood comes home. Withnail is in a state. Its time to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Space Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this is my first fic for this fandom. Beta'd by and dedicated to Keeley (my senpai) and Carofnerds.
> 
> Posting on mobile so apologies if the formatting goes to hell! 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated.

The Space Between Us

The time between Marwood’s departure and his unanticipated return felt infinite to Withnail. It could have been months, years even, since he bid farewell to his friend and returned to his squalid flat alone to drink himself to the edge of unconsciousness. Hours rolled into days and days into weeks as he reached for the nearest bottle to drown his sorrows, and the only thought that he could drag through the mud of his alcohol saturated brain was ‘I miss him’.  
It was a frantic banging on the door and the subsequent sound of the thing being torn from its hinges that brought Withnail crashing back to a drunken reality. He could feel the stubble on his face like limescale on a tap, and vaguely wondered how long he’d been lying in the same spot on the floor for. Judging by the pool of wine-clouded saliva on the carpet and the aching of his hips, he could only guess that it had been at least a couple of hours.  
“Now you look here you fucking great cunt,” he slurred, pushing himself up into a vague sitting position as he swayed precariously, “I’ve already told you that you can take your eviction notice and shove it up your big, fat-” he grasps for a whiskey bottle, misses, reaches again, takes a swig, “-arse. I’m not going anywhere unless you fucking drag me, kicking and screaming, and throw me out onto the street.”  
“Withnail?”  
An awkward pause and the questioning note in the voice that speaks to him informs Withnail that he’s probably just hurled a load of abuse at an undeserving visitor. He looks up, eyes unfocused and unseeing for a fraction of a second before his vision clears and his gaze locks on the unmistakable form of Marwood. He’s standing there, suitcase in hand, curls finally growing back in after they were so horrendously barbered from his elegant head, and Withnail bursts into tears as his heart swells with emotion.  
Then he turns away to vomit explosively all over the wrecked carpet. Marwood drops his suitcase, shucks off his leather coat, and sets about picking up the pieces of the mess he’s left behind.  
\--  
It had taken over forty minutes for Marwood to convince Withnail that he should let him at least attempt to put him to bed. A half hour after that to actually get him to bed, and an hour beyond that to tackle the destruction in the living room. Marwood surveyed the area with the full intention of cleaning the place up considerably whilst his friend slept, but it was painfully obvious to him that in the three months that they’d been apart, Withnail had done nothing but drink, collapse, and drink more. Piles of empty bottles and cans lay amidst broken glass and dirty laundry. It would take a fucking team of cleaners to get this fixed. Sadly, Marwood was but one man—one without the funds to procure such a team—and so he anxiously began the slow clean-up process that would eventually render the place habitable again. That’s when he found it.  
A needle. Sharp and dirty and covered in fingerprints doused in blood, filled with a black fluid that looked as lethal as it probably was. Marwood felt his heart jump into his throat, his stomach flip-flopped anxiously, and he had to fight to keep himself from throwing up. He glanced furtively around the room, picking up an old newspaper and wrapping the syringe, careful not to let the sharp end pierce the paper and puncture his flesh. He quickly rushed down the stairs and out of the flat, dumping the vile thing into the nearest bin that he could find before dashing back inside. He sped into the kitchen, pushed aside a collection of dirty dishes and empty bottles, and rinsed his hands in icy water.  
What the fuck was Withnail doing?

He paced back into the kitchen, clearing one of the chairs and dropping into it as he tried to regain his regular breathing pattern. He’s not stupid; he knows that they’ve done some ridiculous things before with drugs—but never like this. Smoking and taking pills was one thing. Syringes? That was dangerous territory.  
As Marwood mulled over what the fuck he was going to do, he heard a loud thump, a whimper and then pathetic sobbing from the bedroom. He hot-footed it back into the room and was met by the prone form of Withnail, curled up into a ball amongst tangled bedsheets, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch and crying softly. His breath hitched in his throat as he laid eyes on Marwood, and he smiled horrifically through his tears.  
“I wasn’t dreaming,” he whimpered drunkenly, pushing himself up on one shaking arm. Marwood scanned the floor hastily for more contraband and, deciding it was safe, dropped onto his knees next to his friend.  
“No,” he said softly, trying to pull the scotch away without Withnail noticing, “I’m back.”  
Withnail looked at him, transfixed, before he realised what was happening. After a brief struggle, he reclaimed his scotch and cradled it like a mother nursing a newborn. Well; a mother who would pull off her child’s head and drain the contents of its fragile glass body, anyway.  
“Chin, chin,” he said as he finished off the bottle and tossed it carelessly to the side. A moment passed as he hiccupped, and Marwood discreetly backed away in case he decided to expel the contents of his stomach again.  
“Why?” He slurred, whispering so that Marwood had to reluctantly lean closer to hear him.  
“Why what?” Marwood asked, feigning innocence in the hope that Withnail would be too drunk to make him talk about his return.  
“Why are you back?” Withnail slurred, resting his forehead on Marwood’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened? You’re supposed to be a fucking star by now aren’t you? Guzzling from the tit of success?”  
“It didn’t quite work out like that,” Marwood admitted, “what you said about…ah…sucking up to the directors? Well, it turns out that you’re not wrong about it.”  
Withnail took a moment to process this before he guffawed. His manic cackle soon turned into a hacking cough, and Marwood carefully placed an arm around him to steady his shaking shoulders. Withnail’s cough subsided, and he registered the arm around him and leaned into his roommate.  
“I’m fucking tired,” he murmured, “I’m so fucking tired.”  
“Let’s get you back to bed, then,” Marwood said softly.  
“Yes … just … give me a moment,” Withnail quickly turned away and made a desperate grab for the bin, missing as he threw up for the second time that day.  
\--  
After Withnail was suitably dozing off the alcohol in his bloodstream, Marwood tidied to the best of his limited ability, actually gathering the courage to tackle the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink (If tackling meant sweeping them all into a bin bag and walking to the nearest dumpster, then he was a pro).  
Withnail surfaced at around seven that evening, dry-heaving into a bucket that Marwood had the sense to place nearby and moaning about a cracking headache at the same time.  
“I don’t believe I’ve ever felt this awful,” he sobbed as Marwood handed him tissues and swept back his hair as he wretched. It was getting long, and had a knot the size of a small bird’s nest at the crown. Marwood waited for him to stop heaving before he reached for a comb and began to tackle the knot.  
“Well it's quite understandable considering how many empty bottles are thrown about,” Marwood reasoned softly. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat as he considered how to best breach the issue of the syringe.  
“Balls. We’ve done much worse before. Much, much worse,” Withnail argued.  
“Yes. The operative word there being ‘we’. A bottle halved is a hangover less severe,” Marwood finished smoothing Withnail’s unkempt and unwashed hair and placed the comb back on the bedside table. He took a deep breath and resolved to just ask the damn question before the anxiety consumed him.  
“That may be, but I have the temperament to handle anythi--” Withnail started. Marwood stood suddenly, the black pit in his stomach threatening to drag him down, and faced his friend.  
“What was that syringe in the living room?” he blurted before he could stop himself. Withnail’s head snapped up--a movement that he obviously regretted judging by the way he pressed a hand to his forehead--and he glared at Marwood with suspicious eyes.  
“How dare you? How dare you go snooping around? Invading my privacy and peering into my life! What’s the matter with you?”  
“Withnail--”  
“This is exactly the sort of behaviour that I haven’t missed in your absence! No respect!” Withnail was shouting now, his face quivering with rage as he hurled verbal abuse like icy hail.  
“Withnail!” Marwood grasped his friend’s shoulders and met his gaze, “Listen to yourself! I’m not snooping, you great tit, I was fucking cleaning.”  
The rage left Withnail’s eyes like a receding tide, and the tension in his frame uncoiled slowly, reason creeping back into his features.  
“I...I see,” he slumped, holding his head in his hands. Marwood released his shoulders and sat on the bed beside him, a concerned expression playing across his features as he surveyed Withnail’s despair. The taller man sighed.  
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with tears once more. He sunk forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Marwood placed a tentative hand on his spine in a gesture of comfort.  
“It’s alright, Withnail,” he spoke carefully, every word calculated for fear of setting him off again, “I’m here now. We can talk about it.”  
Withnail snivelled pathetically and looked up at Marwood.  
“All well and good, but do you think I could have a cup of tea first?”  
\--  
And so, tea.  
Marwood sat across from Withnail as the taller man lay on the couch, head cradled by several faded pillows, an old crochet blanket thrown haphazardly over his legs, and a chipped and stained mug cupped in his slightly trembling hands. He had heavy black bags under his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was sticking up every which-way despite Marwood’s best efforts. His face was pale, he obviously hadn’t bathed in weeks, and he looked like he needed some general TLC.  
Overall, he was looking good. Better than he had been when Marwood had found him. Withnail took a sip of tea whilst Marwood drank his own from a saucepan--not a great improvement on some of the implements that he had used previously, but still one of the cleanest things in the flat--and waited.  
Moments passed as dust motes hung in the air, the only sound in the room came from the fucked clock on the wall which ticked every three seconds in a disorientating staccato. Marwood finished his tea and set the saucepan on the floor. Withnail cradled the cup in his hands and fixed his eyes on the man in the armchair like a missile locking onto a target.  
“I got it from Danny, obviously,” he said, “he didn’t know what I wanted it for. Refused me a few times until I fucking begged, an--”  
“What did you want it for?” Marwood asked. Withnail’s eyes closed for a moment and he tensed.  
“I wanted to kill myself.”  
Marwood’s stomach plummeted. The room spun. He felt as though he was going to vomit. He gripped the armchair tightly and tried to steady himself. Withnail. Dead. Suicide. Withnail. Dead. He rested his forehead in one hand and counted upwards from zero until the world shifted back into place.  
“What?” He croaked, throat dry, voice hitching as he tried to face the reality of the words that just left his friend’s mouth, “Why?”  
Withnail continued as though Marwood’s world hadn’t just spiralled into a big black fucking hole, “I was depressed. The money ran out, and I just couldn’t cope. Monty died--”  
“Monty fucking died!?” Marwood glared at Withnail, mouth hanging agape in disbelief.  
“Does it really surprise you?” Withnail finished his tea and placed the mug onto the coffee table, “Anyway, Monty died. The will hasn’t been processed yet; bank holidays and all that nonsense. I was at the end of my fucking tether, Peter. I couldn’t do it anymore, and so I decided that I’d had enough. One little squirt in the arm and poof, off I’d pop like nothing ever happened.”

Marwood stared. And stared. And stared. How could Withnail be so composed right now? It was unfathomable, the way he was stating all of this information to him like it was ancient history.  
“So, that brings be back to Danny. I said that I had a vermin problem again. A big fucker nesting right under my bed. That got his mind positively whirring, and so he sold me the largest dose of ricin that he could get his hands on. ‘That’ll sort the fuckers out’, he told me. ‘Yes, I’m sure it will’, I said to him. And that was that.”

Marwood must have been making one hell of a face, because Withnail grimaced and raised an eyebrow at him. Marwood just stared, silently making a vow to knock Danny out the next time he laid eyes on him. Withnail took this as a cue to carry on, and thus did so.  
“Obviously I bollocksed it up. The first time I tried, I forgot to fill the syringe,” he laughs then, “and I just stuck the thing into my arm and slipped and caused myself a rather nasty little scratch. The second time I tried, I got incorrigibly drunk and squirted half of the shit over the carpet, splashed a little of it onto my shirt sleeve, and then I don’t remember much else from there.”  
“Thankfully,” Marwood said, covering his bubbling rage with relief.  
“Yes, well,” Withnail picked up the mug again, frowning as though he’d forgotten that it  
was empty, “don’t hold it against me. I was fucking desperate.”  
Marwood stood, then, and walked over to the couch, roughly shoving Withnail’s legs off to make space for himself. The taller man frowns and stares at the intruder in confusion as Marwood settled himself next to him, pressed awkwardly against his knees.  
“Look,” he said, “We’re going to get you some hel--”  
“Oh, do fuck off,” Withnail sneered unhelpfully, “I’m fine. You came home. Things are looking up.”  
“That may be the case for now! But what if I have to leave again? What are you going to do then? Get depressed and try to off yourself? Do you really think that that’s any way to live, Withnail?”  
“Spare me the lecture,” Withnail folded his arms and pouted like a spoilt brat, “I’m fine. It was a...a momentary lapse. I was drunk--”  
“You’re always drunk.”  
“Well what do you want me to do?” Withnail cried suddenly, throwing his arms up, “What the fuck do you want me to do? I can apologise. I can say that I’m sorry and truly, honestly, I am, but I doubt that’d be good enough for you.” 

Marwood mulled it over for a second.  
“I want you to stop drinking. And no more drugs. At all.”  
\--  
Since then, after several encounters with Danny that have left Marwood confused, angry and often somewhat high, things have been better. The drug dealer agreed to not come within 100 feet of their flat for at least the next six months, and to stop offering deadly poisons for sale completely, especially to lovelorn alcoholics who have just suffered major bereavement.  
“Now that you mention it,” the hippie said as he took a long drag on a spliff that was almost the size of the legendary Camberwell Carrot, “I don’t think that deadly poisons are the right business venture for me. Not at all. I should be selling antibiotics instead. More business there.”  
“Do whatever the fuck you want, Danny, just stay away from Withnail and I. Stay the fuck away from both of us. Do you understand? Six months and you keep clear.”

Eventually the dealer had agreed, and had thus far kept his word. Withnail often questioned his absence as he lay in a withdrawal fuelled haze and called Marwood every name under the sun in order to get his fix; it ranged from the polite--’oh, lovey, please. Just one little drink.’--to full-on enraged--’give me a fucking drink or so help me God I shall tie you to a chair and burn this flat down with you in it whilst your sobbing mother watches from across the fucking street!’ So far, however, Marwood has been able to resist all accounts of begging, threats and pleading that Withnail has offered. They’ve even managed to get out a few times; to the park, to the shops, even to the dry cleaners to get some of Withnail’s more expensive suits laundered professionally.

Marwood had never been so tired though. Running errands and picking up their dole money and tidying up and keeping Withnail the fuck away from pubs and off-licenses was a full-time job, and by the time evening fell he often struggled to keep his eyes open for more than five minutes when he collapsed into a chair, often falling asleep and staying there until morning when he’d be awoken by Withnail’s frantic caterwauling and demands for booze, breakfast or company.  
Tonight was one such night. Heavy rain pelted the windows, and Withnail lay half-asleep on the couch, actually reading a book. Or half reading it anyway, and Marwood was reclined in the armchair with a cup of Horlicks in hand, lazily scanning a newspaper and counting down the seconds until Withnail said--  
“I’m tired.”  
Nothing else was needed. Marwood drained his cup, staggered to his feet--drunk from exhaustion and not booze, which made a refreshing and pleasing change to their previous routine--and extended an arm to his friend. Withnail glared at it, eyes half-lidded.  
“I meant fuck off. I’ll sleep here,” he grinned sleepily and Marwood laughed.  
“I don’t think so,” he grasped Withnail’s forearm and pulled him slowly to his feet. The taller man only trembled and shivered very slightly now, as opposed to the bone-racking convulsions and shaking that he had experienced in his early days of withdrawal.  
Marwood was glad that it was behind them now.  
He looped an arm around Withnail’s waist as the taller man leaned on him, and they stumbled into his bedroom.  
“Goodnight, then,” Marwood said softly as he deposited Withnail into bed.  
Withnail made a sound of protest as he lay splayed amongst the pillows and tangled sheets, unbuttoned shirt revealing pale skin stretched over fragile collarbones. The very image of privilege and wealth, elegantly disheveled with eyes that said ‘come here’. Marwood felt his mouth go dry, and he cleared his throat.  
“What?” he questioned, expecting him to ask for a drink or some extra blankets or something, anything at all except what spilled from his lips.  
“Will you stay?”  
“I...do you need me to?” Marwood spoke slowly, trying to gauge Withnail’s reaction. He simply nodded and shuffled over to make room.  
Fuck. Fucking fuck. Marwood was sweating. The last few weeks had been amazing; tiring and backbreaking and emotional and almost torturous, but rewarding and worth it to see his closest friend returned to almost normality. And through it all he had wondered if there was something more. Underneath the veil of care, he knew about their respective unresolved feelings. It had played on his mind for weeks and months after he’d left London--what would have happened if he’d stayed. They’d grown both closer and further apart during and after their holiday in the countryside, and the whole ordeal had stirred some pretty confusing emotions inside Marwood. It was why he’d had to just go. To leave Withnail despite knowing that he was on the verge of eviction and total ruin. He’d needed the time to figure it out, knowing how selfish and inconsiderate that was of him. What would have happened if he’d have stayed? Would he have told Withnail how he felt?  
Probably. But would it have fucked everything up? Ruined their friendship forever?  
Probably not.  
Withnail smiled and nodded, “please.”  
Marwood stepped closer, perched on the edge of the bed precariously. Withnail frowned.  
“Are you going to sleep fully clothed? Because I can assure you that I’m not,” he asked as he pulled off his socks and trousers and dumped them unceremoniously beside the bed.  
Marwood shook his head no and clumsily slipped his jumper off and shucked off his jeans, folding his clothes neatly into a pile before placing them on a nearby chair.  
Marwood stared at his friend for a moment, clad now in only a shirt and underwear. He’d seen him like this countless times before. Even seen the bastard smothering himself in Deep Heat in an attempt to keep warm, clad in Y-fronts and an overcoat, but nothing had ever made him feel like this. His heart swelled in his chest and he badly wanted to both turn off the light and end the tension, and throw himself at the other man and confess the barrage of emotions that were raging incoherently inside him.  
Fortunately, Withnail made the first move.  
It was subtle, really, but he lay down on his side and faced Marwood, sliding as close as humanly possible without actually touching him. And then he did touch him, and Marwood wasn’t breathing at all as Withnail closed the space between them and pressed a sober kiss to his lips.  
It was the first kiss that they’d ever shared sober. Sure, there had been drunken nights that had ended with a ridiculous amount of groping, and kisses that had either been the product of dares or bets or just because they’d had nobody else around to kiss instead. None of them had ever made Marwood feel like this. Like his heart was going to burst out of his chest and disrupt the pristine whiteness of Withnail’s recently laundered shirt. Then he realised that Withnail was shaking and he pulled abruptly away to get a look at his face, to make sure that his body wasn’t pulling him down into the terrifying abyss of convulsing withdrawal.  
“Withnail?”  
“Shut up,” he laughed through tears, which were streaming down his cheeks. Marwood tittered nervously before laughing out loud with relief? Humour? He wasn’t sure. All that mattered was that he was laughing and Withnail was laughing and for the first time in months he felt happy and content and like he hadn’t made a bad decision.  
And then he said it, eyes clouded with tears from laughter and pent-up emotion and relief, “I love you, Withnail,” and oh the solace he felt when Withnail pressed another kiss to his lips and then two to his teary cheeks and said “I love you too, Peter,” was second to nothing that he had ever felt before.  
\--  
Weeks, months, almost a year on, and they’ve finally had a fucking break.  
Having no other living family members, Monty had given Withnail everything, and the first thing that they’d done is sell the godforsaken holiday cottage in Penrith. The second thing, much to Marwood’s reluctance, was moving into Monty’s old Chelsea home. Within a week the place was stripped of all it’s root vegetables, the cat was presumed dead, and the valuables were sold off.  
“Maybe Monty killed the little bastard before he died?” Withnail suggested as they lay on the opposing couches one evening, smoking.  
“Perhaps. Or maybe it just ran away,” Marwood said, idly toying with the fraying threads on an old tapestry blanket. Withnail snorted.  
“Don’t be fucking absurd. He hated the blasted thing. He would have realised that his end was nigh and offed the cat as soon as it came close.”  
It was better though, really. Living in Chelsea. Withnail was able to spend vast amounts of money on tailored suits, and Marwood was able to spend some much needed time resting whilst his partner pranced around securing audition after audition after audition.  
Before long, they were both having auditions, and they finally managed to get parts in the same production; as opposing leads. The show was far from successful, but their tidy pay packets meant that they were able to survive without touching too much of Monty’s money and the money from the cottage for a good few months. Marwood was industrious like that. Long gone were the days when they spent all of their earnings on booze, and now all he wanted to do was build up a security fund for the future.

The future. Their future. Together.


End file.
